Texture
by Sakon76
Summary: A new cop gets assigned an old cop car.
1. Satin

Texture 1/6 - Satin  
by K. Stonham  
first released 15th May 2008

"Here you go, rookie," Stan told Jason, dropping the keys into his hand. "Old Faithful is all yours," he said, gesturing expansively at the old Crown Victoria, its police colors muted by a fine layer of dust and covered with splatters of mud, crud, and what Jason could only hope wasn't blood.

He arched an eyebrow. "'Old Faithful'?" he inquired sardonically.

"She's been with the department for upwards of twenty years now... nearly as old as you are," Stan said expansively. "All the rookies get her. She may look like crap, but she's kind of a lucky charm." He quirked half a smile. "You'll find out."

"Right."

He got a clap on the back for his drawled response. "You'll see, rookie," Stan told him. "Now get her cleaned up and she's all yours for patrol tomorrow."

* * *

"You, my friend, are a mess," Jason told the car, having rolled up his shirt sleeves and tipped his shades down to perch on the very end of his nose. "If you're so lucky, they could at least clean you once in a while!" Still, the dust hosed off and the mud-and-not-blood gradually absorbed the water too and became more friable as he scrubbed at the rest of the bodywork. He didn't even want to think of what it was going to take to make the inside decent--it reeked of old doughnuts and the ghosts of stale coffees spilled long ago. But for now the doors and windows were shut as he tackled the outside underneath the August sun.

The wheels were _encrusted_ and it was a miracle they even turned. The grill bars were vile. And, really, it was his opinion that touching a spoiler shouldn't leave one's hand _sticky_. Jason merely rolled his eyes and continued scrubbing.

Gradually the filth became better and his mood lightened a bit, even catching himself whistling snippets of Disney songs. By the time the vehicle was clean (many gallons and buckets of soapy water later), he was even feeling right pleased with himself. He toweled the car dry, then smiled wickedly and got out the wax.

* * *

The car _gleamed_ under the streetlight, its finish like satin. Tired and sore in places he didn't know he was still able to be sore, Jason smiled cockily at his cruiser. "You are a thing of beauty, and a bitch to clean, and your ass is mine," he told the car cockily. "You and I have a date tomorrow, beautiful." And with that he strode off to reclaim his own car--a cherry red roadster that had never given him as many problems to clean, but also never given him quite the sense of satisfaction as this afternoon's long work had done.

He didn't even realize he was humming.


	2. Leather

Texture 2/6 - Leather  
by K. Stonham  
first released 17th May 2008

The car's interior still needed airing out, but at least its exterior was decent, Jason thought as he got in the driver's seat and adjusted it back to fit his height. Maybe if he rode all day with the windows down.... He paused, registering the fit and mold of the seat. For a twenty-year-old car it was damn comfortable.

Maybe just another reason, he thought as he ran a hand across the steering wheel's grip, that she was called "Old Faithful."

He turned the key and the engine roared to life, his eyes flying wide. Holy crap. There was _power_ in this baby!

"Oooh," he murmured appreciatively, feeling the vibrations through the leather like the best kind of massage. "You and I are going to go a long way, baby." The engine roared in response and he noticed how deep a note its hum was. "You're not a lady at all, are you?" he asked. "More like a jungle cat."

Loving the patrol car already, Jason pulled out of the police lot, eager to start the day.

* * *

"So," Fanzone asked him that afternoon, stopping by his desk, "how's Faithful treating you?"

Jason grinned up at his boss. "If I ever wanted to marry a car, that one's it."

Fanzone arched an eyebrow, looking like an overweight, balding Vulcan. "That good, huh?"

"Yeah." Jason set his pen down and leaned back a little in his chair. "Question: if the car's all that, why was he sitting looking like crap out in the yard? Why hasn't someone been driving him?"

"Him?"

"You heard the roar of that engine?" Jason asked. "That car ain't no chick."

Fanzone smirked. "Tell you a story, kid. When I was a rookie, that car saved my life. It's done that for a bunch of us. It's the toughest sucker in that yard. That's why it ain't ever been scrapped--we keep quiet about how long it's been here, 'cuz it's way past retirement age. The rookies--stupid kids like you who don't know better yet--get it because mistakes, and sooner or later they _will_ happen, even to you, end up a little less serious when that car's involved." He paused to take a drink from his mug. "I don't know if Faithful's haunted, or just lucky, but you respect that car and she'll take good care of you. Got it?"

"Got it, boss."

"Good. Keep your nose clean." And with that, Fanzone wandered off.

Jason leaned back further in his chair, thinking. "That car _ain't_ a Christine," he finally said to himself. "No way."

* * *

A/N: I have no idea about cop procedures. And I needed a boss figure, so I nicked Captain Fanzone from Animated because I like him.


	3. Fishnet

Texture 3/6 - Fishnet  
by K. Stonham  
first released 5th June 2008

The hooker wore fishnets and couldn't have been a day over fifteen. Jason kept his expression level and his thoughts to himself. The girl should have been at home studying for a math test, not turning tricks under streetlamps. But he didn't know what she'd been running from; maybe it was something she thought was worse than selling herself for money. And he couldn't just drag her in for standing on the sidewalk. Not until.

Ah.

He slipped out of the Vic and into the shadows, watching as a white Mercedes slowed down and pulled over just past the girl. She perked up and trotted over to the expensive car, just a touch wobbly on her spiked heels. Bending over, she discussed something through the passenger window, and Jason could just make out the sum "three hundred a night." She was shot down with derisive laughter and glanced across the street where a man loitered. Her pimp, maybe? "Two hundred," she offered instead, sounding somewhat lame.

He had evidence of solicitation. That was all he needed.

"I don't think you wanna be doin' that," Jason said, melting out of the shadows. He already had the car's front plate memorized. "I think you'd all better come with me."

The girl stepped backward, surprised, and Jason expected the car to take off in a screech of peeling rubber. Instead a hand with a gun appeared and his vision narrowed to that one point as the pimp across the street produced a piece as well. There was a shriek from the girl, shots rained out even as he tried to roll back into the relative safety of the alley, and a metallic crunch as Faithful's brakes failed and it rammed into the front of the Mercedes from the slight slope of the street, Jason sheltered behind its bulk.

* * *

Somehow he'd ended up only scratched and scraped, which was good because Jason was a notoriously bad patient and worse at being stuck on desk duty. The pimp had disappeared and so had one of the johns, but the hooker--Tina--had surprised him by tackling the other john and managing to pin him until Jason could get the cuffs on. She'd been turned over to the station's counselor and was probably on her way into a foster home until her family could be contacted and evaluated.

Ignoring the station that sat square behind him, Jason approached Faithful, who wasn't even scratched from the encounter with the johns' car. The Mercedes, on the other hand, had had its engine block crumpled in and would never run again.

Lucky was one thing. That tough was another. It spoke of inhuman construction.

There was no _symbol_ on the car, though. Not the familiar, friendly Autobot symbol, and even more definitely not the mark of the Decepticon faction.

"Look," Fanzone had told him bluntly, "you think we've never thought of that? We've checked every inch of that car over at one time or another. There ain't no mark. Heck, we even wired the Autobots at one point, asking if they were maybe missing a soldier. Whatever that car is, they ain't heard of it."

"Robots in disguise," Jason muttered to himself, running a hand over the roof and opening the door. He sat down and looked at the center of the steering wheel. At the radio. At the dash. Nothing.

Running a hand down the control panel, he jerked as a blue spark suddenly snapped at him from the open power outlet. He cradled his hand for a moment, fingers of the other running over it to check damage. There was none, so he reached carefully back and snapped closed the outlet's cover. He sighed and slumped back in the seat, hands on the wheel.

"Maybe Fanzone's right," he said to no one. "Maybe I'm seeing things." He thought for a moment, about the totaled Mercedes. About all the other lucky coincidences he'd heard about. About the blue spark that hadn't hurt him at all. His eyes narrowed. "Or maybe not," he said. He nodded and got out of the car again. "I'm going home," he said, addressing the interior of the car. "I'll see you tomorrow. Whoever you are." He closed the door and walked away.

Sometime in the middle of the night an engine turned over quietly in the middle of the police parking lot, then fell quiet again.


	4. Velvet

Texture 4/6 - Velvet  
by K. Stonham  
first released 6th June 2008

The spark shocked him into a muzzy wakefulness. The snap of energy tingled, an unaccustomed sensation. He heard the murmur of something--a voice? He couldn't quite muster up the energy to make it out. Then his door closed and there was the sound, the impression, of someone walking away. Who, he didn't know. It was all foggy, lost in a misty haze. Where he was, who that was, what was happening... he didn't know and he didn't care anymore. He waited for himself, his awareness, to drift away again as it should. With the bond that anchored him to the universe snapped, it was the only natural outcome.

He waited.

Eventually, when the planet's moon was high in the sky, he realized it wasn't happening. Surprised, shocked even, at this realization, his engine started and he nearly bolted, but....

No. Best to stay under whatever cover he'd apparently found here, and suss out the situation. He needed information before he could act. Where was he? What was going on?

When was it?

Wherever he was, it had an information web streaming through the air. He opened a connection, and started sifting through it for what he needed to know.

* * *

The planet was small and blue, third from the star designated as "Sol," with three-quarters of its surface covered with corrosive saline oceans. In them, as on the land surfaces, the dominant form of life was carbon-based organics. There was (arguably) only a single sentient species on the planet, one called "humans." They resembled miniature Cybertronians to a small degree, being symmetrical, bipedal, and expressing complex chains of both rational thought and emotional fluctuation. They dreamed of exquisite beauty and committed acts of vile deformity; they were in contact with the Autobots, and the Decepticons were reviled.

He remembered landing on this planet, vaguely. It had been a while ago. A quarter vorn, perhaps? It had come after he'd felt himself being ripped apart.

There were informational sites, contact information, sightings lists, intangible memorials.

He had a faint impression of staggering to cover, like someone who had imbibed too much highgrade. He'd obviously managed to find a camouflage before the empty world had faded away from him.

There were lists of the dead, names whispered into the velvet silence of that which no longer was.

There were dreams of almost-waking but never piercing that surface. Like a mech without audio intakes trying to parse sound vibrations... just moving enough to help when needed, he stabbed a blind guess.

There was the name that had taken the universe away with him, only a quarter-vorn ago.

* * *

Jason approached Faithful just a touch warily the next morning and opened the driver's side door. "You gonna zap me again?" he asked. No answer. With a sigh he got in and buckled up, adjusted the mirrors and put the key in the ignition. "I know you're not just a car, you know," he said before turning the key. "So if you wanna give me your name at any point, I kinda doubt it's 'Old Faithful.' But I ain't got anything else to call you until you speak up." Still no reply. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and turned the key.

The Vic roared out of the lot as he started the patrol.

It was a slow day, almost peaceful, with only a handful of robberies to report and two domestic violence calls to get in the middle of. For the most part Jason forgot about the car and what it wasn't, especially when talking down a boyfriend with a knife. There were just sudden moments when he got back in the car and wondered, hand frozen on the wheel, if it could _feel_ him. Or if, maybe, he was going crazy. Not like people the world over hadn't been mildly suspicious of cars and trucks and planes and, hell, all technology for the past twenty years. There'd even been a popular name coined in the media for the alien-loonies: "'droid dementia." He didn't think he had it, but then, probably none of them did either.

The sun was low and casting the sky golden by the time he pulled back into the lot, and he sighed as he turned the engine off. The dispatch radio popped and buzzed as Cherise directed the cars to calls, but there was no other sound. Well, if he concentrated there was the ticking of the car's metal as it cooled, the low rush of street traffic, and a soft whoo-who of a bird nested somewhere in the locust along the fence.

An unfamiliar voice from the radio caught his drifting attention. He blinked at it, shifting up a little straighter. Cherise's voice went in and out under waves of lulling static. "What...?" Jason asked, reaching for the radio. As he touched the receiver it squawked loudly at him and he jumped back, startled, like he'd been bit. The static swirled lowly for a minute, then coalesced into a grainy voice.

"Prowl," Faithful said.

"Prowl?" Jason asked dumbly. Then, "That's your name?"

The engine revved once without the key turning over, and Jason wondered just what, if anything he should tell Fanzone. Maybe he should just wait? "Nice to meet you, Prowl. I'm Jason Marsh."


	5. Lace

Texture 5/6 - Lace  
by K. Stonham  
first released 10th June 2008

Jason approached the car, stopped and blinked at its insignia for a few minutes, then got in. "That wasn't there yesterday," he commented as he slotted the key into the ignition.

Static, then a still-grainy voice spoke through the radio: "I wasn't entirely myself yesterday."

"Or for the last twenty-some years," Jason agreed. He paused, brushing a hand against the sun visor. "You're not going to end up flipping personalities too, are you?"

"Flipping... personalities?" Prowl asked, sounding confused.

"Yeah." Jason grinned, hand on the gearstick. "Before everyone thought you were just a car, now all of a sudden you're an Autobot... who knows what you might be tomorrow."

"_Not_ a Decepticon," Prowl said, his distaste vehement in his voice.

"Whatever you say. Ready to patrol, partner?"

* * *

"Captain wants to see you," Stan said as soon as Jason got in the office. "Right now."

Jason raised both brows at that and pulled his shades off, flipping them closed and tucking them into a breast pocket as he wound his way through the station to Fanzone's office. He knocked once, then went in as bid.

Fanzone looked at him over a sheaf of printouts. "Close the door, rookie," he instructed, setting them down on the desk. Jason did and there was a minute before Fanzone spoke again, as if he was considering his words. "Got a look at Faithful this morning," Fanzone said. "Noticed a little addition you did. Completely aside from any issues of defacing precinct property, you do know the Autobot mark is restricted, right?"

"I didn't do it." The words were out of Jason's mouth before he could stop them.

"Oh, and I suppose Old Faithful did?" Fanzone wasn't even trying to hide his sarcastic streak.

"Yes, sir."

"Riiiight." Fanzone drawled the word.

"I can give you proof, sir."

Fanzone stopped. "Proof?" he parroted.

Jason nodded and moved to open the door. "His name ain't 'Faithful.' It's 'Prowl'."

* * *

Fanzone put his head on the desk with a thunk. "Twenty-one years, three months, nine days," he muttered, interlaced fingers on top of his head kneading just slightly. "An Autobot...."

Jason patted his captain's shoulder comfortingly, a smirk on his face. "Can't be that bad," he pointed out.

"You got no idea of the paperwork this's gonna entail, kid," Fanzone replied, not lifting his head. "Get goin'. I'll talk with you and him tomorrow."

As Jason headed out the door, he heard the faintest whine of "This is why I hate technology..." emanating from the vicinity of the desk.

* * *

The Captain wasn't in when Jason showed up for his shift the next morning, though. With a shrug, he claimed Prowl's keys and headed out to the alien vehicle. "Mornin', Prowl," he greeted as he got in.

"Good morning. You just missed Captain Fanzone."

"Have a nice chat?"

"Indeed. We discussed my desire to remain with your police force rather than return to the Autobots."

Jason froze, key halfway to the ignition. "Say what?" he asked stupidly. "You don't _want_ to go back to the Autobots?"

"No."

He took a breath and lowered his hand. "Prowler, hate to tell you this, but being a cop--or a cop car--is pretty small change compared to what the Autobots do. There's better things you could be doing than watching out for a stupid rookie like me." He paused. "Unless there's some kinda reason you don't want to go back to the Autobots?" he fished.

Prowl's silence was telling.

"Right. So what'd you do?"

"The forbidden. Must we have this conversation?"

"Yes, and forbidden how? Jaywalking forbidden, or killing your father and marrying your mother forbidden?"

Prowl was silent for a moment, then asked, sounding puzzled, "Oedipus?" Jason figured he'd been looking it up on the Internet. "Your species has startlingly vivid mythologies."

"Yes, and answer the question already." Jason's voice was starting to rasp, as it tended to under stress, and he pulled off his shades in frustration. "Did you kill someone?"

"Lots of 'someone's," Prowl replied. "Decepticons all. But that's not why I can't go back."

"So what is it?"

Prowl was silent for a long, long moment before replying, "Because I bonded with someone, which is a violation of everything our species is." And his engine started, with the key still sitting in Jason's hand. Prowl pulled out of the police lot without Jason's guidance, effectively ending the conversation.


	6. Silk

Texture 6/6 - Silk  
by K. Stonham  
first released 12th June 2008

Three days of solid pestering failed to get the Autobot to crack and tell him what this "bonding" thing was and why it was so forbidden. Which, Jason figured, meant it was time to drag in the big guns. A quick nod at Captain Fanzone and the accompanying gesture of his right hand as a faux telephone one morning was all he needed to get his idea across. When he reported back to the office that afternoon, Fanzone gave him a single nod in response.

Two days later, two vehicles that were very definitely not cop cars waited in the police yard as Jason and Prowl returned from their patrol.

The Crown Victoria slammed on its brakes and went into a hasty reverse, only to be blocked from the rear by a search and rescue vehicle.

"Ow," Jason muttered, gingerly kneading the back of his neck from when he'd first been thrown forward, then forward again, against the Autobot's seat belt. "A little compassion for the squashable human here?"

* * *

They'd called the Autobots. Scratch that--_Jason_ had called the Autobots. Captain Fanzone wouldn't have done so unpushed. And now, trapped between Optimus Prime, Ratchet, and little Bumblebee, Prowl had no place to run. Gracelessly, with a grumble of static in his CPU expressing exactly what he thought of the human inside him, Prowl submitted to the capture and sank low on his wheels.

A part of him wondered maliciously if Jason would feel guilty when he was deactivated. Because Ratchet _would_ insist on a full medical checkup, and there was no way Prowl's spark looked like it had once, long ago.

Slag them all, it had been worth it, every minute of it. Even if it had been Jazz's wild-sparked idea so long ago. Slagging heretic and cultist that he'd been. Missing Jazz was like cycling air.

"First Lieutenant Prowl," Optimus' voice rumbled softly in English. "You're late reporting for duty."

"My apologies, sir," Prowl replied, not letting himself show the anger, or the fear, or the pain. They were part of living, and nothing to be ashamed of, Jazz had once told him. He hadn't understood then. He understood now. But he'd lived a good life, outlived his bondmate, his spark-brother; by rights, he should have died when Jazz had. The extra time had been a bonus, a grace. He felt cool calm ease through him at the thought, and identified it as the part of himself that was _himself_, separate and distinct from, but always entwined with, that part of their spark which had been Jazz's.

Jazz had given him emotion and he'd given Jazz control, and together they'd been balanced and unstoppable.

A human Prowl recognized from the Internet stepped out of Bumblebee's interior. Just past forty years old, Ambassador Witwicky was trim and casually dressed, his brown eyes sharp and his mouth edged deeply with smile and laugh lines. Recognizing the cue for what it was, Prowl opened his own driver's side door and consciously didn't eject his passenger as roughly as he thought Jason deserved. Jason raised an eyebrow over the rim of his sunglasses, then took the hint and got out, walking over to where Captain Fanzone was just exiting the building. Witwicky ambled in the same direction.

* * *

"Well, this is going to go just peachy," the police captain grumbled, watching the four vehicles congregated in (and blocking access to) the precinct parking lot.

"You worry too much, Captain," Jason replied. Then the interspecies ambassador came up the shallow steps and joined them in the shade.

"Ambassador Sam Witwicky," he introduced himself, shaking hands first with Fanzone, then with Jason. "Captain Fanzone, I assume, and...?"

"Jason Marsh," Jason replied with a grin, shaking the hand of a very famous and infinitely cool man. "What's crackin'?"

Sam blinked and his handshake became just a fraction firmer for a second before it ended. "Thanks for giving us a call, even if it was against his wishes."

"Not a problem," Fanzone replied. He looked beyond the ambassador to the Autobots, who seemed to be conversing in what Jason guessed was their native language. It certainly didn't sound Earthly, anyway; synthesized tones that would ache the bones if they were any louder, static, hops and skips and jumps of rhythm. It was almost like techno music, except that no one was dancing. "Gonna be a little sad to see him leave. He's been here for... seems like forever sometimes." The search and rescue vehicle transformed, looming over Prowl imperiously for a moment before shooing him to an emptier and somewhat screened area of the parking lot, behind some trees and a few box-clipped hedges.

* * *

"Physically fit," Ratchet pronounced after a few scans. "Transform and let me check the rest."

Reluctantly, Prowl obeyed the medic, standing on his own two feet. Beyond the trees he saw Jason and Fanzone practically staring. It was fair enough, he decided; they'd never actually seen him as other than the police car before. "Traces of rust on your vocalizer," Ratchet told him. "Easily fixable. From disuse, I assume?"

"Correct," Prowl said quietly.

The medic rapped a knuckle on Prowl's chest. "Open up," he instructed. "I need to make sure your spark chamber's intact."

Behind him, Bumblebee snickered, surprising Prowl. The young one had finally had his vocalizer repaired? "As if it could be anything else with him functional," he teased, laughter spilling through his voice.

Fearless, Prowl counseled himself. Even if you weren't, Jazz's echo whispered to him, _act_ like it.

Blue-white light spilled out as he revealed his spark.

* * *

Ratchet regarded the shining threads of blue and white that embraced one another like Celtic knotwork. "Looks fine," he decided. "Close up. You're cleared for duty."

Prowl stared at him as though he couldn't believe his audials. "Ratchet...?" he asked cautiously.

Ratchet raised an optical ridge at him. "Do you have a _reason_ to object to being declared in working order?" he asked archly.

"But..." Prowl protested, his overdeveloped logic circuits no doubt working overtime to try to figure out why Ratchet wasn't decrying him as a heretic and an abomination.

Optimus' hand on Prowl's shoulder derailed the befuddled, shocked gaze to their Prime instead. Who canted a significant gaze to the tangled silk threads of light within his second's chest. "I remember a pair of young bots," Optimus said quietly. "One couldn't control himself and the other was constantly breaking down because he couldn't handle things he didn't expect. They both had so much potential, but no way to access it. Then they seemed to get a handle on themselves... both, oddly, on the same day." His smile was gentle. "I vowed not to ask questions. And if one of them happened to hint at heresy to me, long later... well, he was freshly recovered from repairs at the time and his processors were most likely still off-kilter."

Ratchet watched in amusement as Prowl's expression went from blank shock to incandescent fury. He snapped shut the plates over his chest. "If he wasn't dead," Prowl seethed quietly, "I would beat him within an inch of his spark _myself_."

* * *

The Autobots didn't stay too long, maybe half an hour at the outside, before leaving. Ambassador Witwicky went with them, climbing again into the driver's seat of the yellow one. He left his private contact details with both Jason and Fanzone "just in case" with a secretive smile.

"They're gonna be back," Fanzone said, tucking the card in a pocket.

"Gotta agree with you there, boss," Jason agreed. He canted a look at Prowl, who still stood in the lot, watching his compatriots drive away. "Think he's gonna stay?"

Fanzone considered the Autobot. "Maybe. Why don't you go ask him?" he suggested, and turned to go back in the building, chasing away the crowd of cops and secretaries who stood pressed against the interior of the glass doors.

* * *

The human approached him slowly, stopping when he was only a few feet away from Prowl's foot. His gaze raked up and down the humanoid form. "Looks good on you," he finally said. "Nice wings."

Prowl crossed his arms and looked down at Jason, unimpressed with the flattery.

"So are you staying?" the rookie asked.

With a roll of his optics, Prowl folded down into the Crown Victoria form so they were at a better level to hold a civilized conversation. He flicked open his door in invitation. "If I had been going to leave, I would have gone with them."

Jason gingerly sat in the offered seat and ran his hands along the steering wheel. The touch of his fingertips was like silk. "Mad at me?" he asked.

"Furious," Prowl replied.

"So, about this bonding thing that you won't tell me about...."

With a sigh of frustration, Prowl started his engine and pulled out of the lot, Jason fastening his seat belt with a hasty yelp. "We are not having this conversation in front of your coworkers."

"You mean we are gonna have it? Excellent!"

"You," Prowl said, something in his processors reminding him of an echo, a ghost of words he'd said to someone else long ago, "are the single most annoying human I've met."

"Out of two. Great odds there, Prowler."

Resolutely _not_ shaking himself on his suspension to rattle the human about, Prowl headed for a secluded park area, where he could tell Jason about balance and sin and the forbidden combination of two souls into one. A story of a bot he'd met long, long ago... and how he and his brother, two imperfect mechs, had found a way to redeem one another and live whole.

_You,_ the echo whispered across the cosmos, _are the single most annoying bot I've ever met_.

Somewhere, someone smiled.

* * *

A/N: This story was originally written for a fabric-themed writing challenge on the livejournal prowlxjazz community. As is my wont, I kind of went sideways and used the fabrics as words. You can find them buried in each chapter they're titled for. "Lace" was the hardest and turned into "interlaced".... The other impetus for this story was to examine the fanon phenomenon of bonding in more familiar religious terms. It's frequently presented as two sparks (souls) melding into one. While very romantic and all, I can't help but think the Catholic church, if no one else, would go into screaming fits over that. So what if bonding still had all the advantages and disadvantages it usually does, but instead of being the Cybertronian equivalent of marriage, was an anthema to them...?


End file.
